


Thanatophoroi

by Maharetchan



Series: My Care is like my Shadow [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Consensual Violence, Crime Scenes, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Gore, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Infidelity, M/M, Murder, Nightmares, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maharetchan/pseuds/Maharetchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disturbing case makes Will wonder about the limits of his relationship with Hannibal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Katabasis

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Since, as usual, this got out of my hands and was becoming really long, I decided to split it in two chapters; the second one shouldn't take long to finish, considering I've written half of it already. ^^ I hope you'll enjoy anyway! And thank you so much for all the nice comments! The really give me the motivation to continue this story. ^^  
> 2\. The title of this part means "Bringers of Death"; the title of the chapter is the term used to describe the descent or a trip in the Underworld.  
> 3\. There are a few myths scattered in this chapter and in the next one; also, I haven't being explicit about who Jack is, but I'm curious to see if you get it ;). The book Will talks about is my invention, the inspiration came from an anime I used to watch as a kid.  
> 4\. There is some gore/vore in this part so, beware, but, since I suck at writing action and violence, I'm not sure how that turned out. Sorry, I'm the worst D:  
> 5\. My first language is not English and I don't have an English beta reader. So please excuse the grammar mistakes that you'll probably find.  
> 6\. I love comments!

Will wakes up slowly curled on Hannibal's bed, the house perfectly silent around him, safely hidden between the sheets; his mind is calm, his body relaxed and he indulges in that incredibly pleasant warmth that is surrounding him for a while longer.

He doesn't know what time it is or how long he slept, he only knows that he feels good, better than he felt in months; there's a peace inside him that he didn't know he could feel and just that is enough to make him smile.

He turns around and there are a glass of water and two pills on the bedside: he drinks the water and ignores the pills, feeling perfectly fine. He goes back to lie down for a few more minutes, before starting to wonder where the other man might be.

"Hannibal?"

His voice is so soft he can barely hear it himself, so he decides to get up, before ending up wasting a whole day in bed; the house is deadly cold and he's naked, his body exposed and shivering in the dark room: he stumbles around to find some clothes and ends up putting his jeans and the least expensive looking of Hannibal's shirts on. The texture is so different from the rough ones he's used, that makes a pleasant thrill run on his spine: it's not very warm, but it's soft and retains the faint scent of Hannibal's body.

He calls for him again once he's downstairs, but the silence remains solid and absolute, making him feel awkward just because he's breaking it with his voice. Outside it's snowing and the house is clouded in a soft chiaroscuro that seems to have come out of a dream and everything feels unreal, washed out and filtered; he almost wants to go back to bed, tuck himself in and wait for Hannibal to return.

Instead, he goes into the kitchen; not having anything better to do, he starts cleaning, surprised to find such a mess in the usually pristine and perfect house: he can't help but wonder what prompted Hannibal to leave without waking him up or finding the time to put everything back in order.

Will's feet are cold against the flood, but he doesn't mind; the sensation keeps his mind focused on the task of washing the delicate glasses and plates, drying them carefully one by one in a slow and comfortable rhythm; he doesn't mind the silence, it gives him time to think. 

On his tongue, in the back of his mouth, in his throat, he can still taste the breakfast and Hannibal's mouth against his while they were kissing in bed; can still feel his hands on his body. 

Unconsciously, he touches the bruises Hannibal left on his hips, the print of his fingers pressed into his skin; Will shivers at the thought, remembering the rough touches, the nails digging into his skin, his teeth biting into his soft flesh. He lets out a moan without wanting to and feels ashamed afterward.

His mind is too busy focusing on what it remember to focus on what is haunting him, creeping in the back, forgotten until it comes back to get him: he's as guilty as Hannibal is now, maybe more because he's not going to do anything to stop him.  
Both because he can't and because he doesn't want to.

Will knows he's guilty, but doesn't feel guilty: he feels just fine, finally at peace with the demons that were eating his life and his sanity away before. Now the pieces of the puzzle are back in their right places, forming a vivid and clear scene in front of his eyes, something that gifts him with a tranquility he knows he doesn't deserve, but that he keeps inside like a trasure. 

Will takes a deep breath and puts away the last plate, closing his eyes for a moment.

He oogles the leftovers of breakfast carefully put away in the Tupperware containers on the counter and opens one, inhaling the inviting scent of the food; his stomach growls. Will eats it there, standing against the counter, drinking lukewarm coffee and feeling his body gratefully accepting the nourishment it needed.

The cold meat's taste spreads in his mouth, reinvigorates him; his gain is somebody else's loss.

"Oh, you are awake. Good."

Hannibal is staring at him from the kitchen's door: Will didn't even hear him come in. The man smiles indulgently at him as he takes off his jacket and settles it on the back of a chair.

"You have ruined your appetite; I was wondering what to cook for lunch."

Will murmurs an apology while putting away the empty container into the sink; Hannibal just keeps smiling and comes closer, moving slowly like a feline circling his prey. He should be scared. He never is.

"Where did you go?"  
"I had some business to attend to."

He nods and looks away.

“I assume you have slept well?”

“Yeah. I did.”

Hannibal keep his distance from him, not entering his personal space yet, just examining him with his attentive eyes; he makes no comment on the shirt he's wearing other than an appreciative nod that makes Will feel the need to smile at him, unconsciously responding to Hannibal's praising.

If the man notices, he doesn't say; Hannibal pours himself some coffee as well, his mouth savoring it for a moment, before swallowing: he watches, fascinated.

Will gets away from the counter and goes to sit on one of the chairs the man brought there for their breakfast, his eyes focused on Hannibal's back, while the man finishes rearranging the kitchen; his mind starts to wander.

The peace around them is sweet on his tongue, but has a bitter and hidden aftertaste that he knows will come out sooner or later: he can't stay buried in Hannibal's house forever after all, he'll have to face the world again, look at Jack, Alana and everybody he'll meet in the eyes and lie to them without giving himself away.

He will become a keeper of secrets he never wanted to know, too linked to Hannibal to ever even consider the idea of betraying him: they are one, separating them is impossible at this point.

Yet Will feels a solace in the idea of sharing the lies with him, of hiding inside them and cloaking them around them both, to keep them together as close as they can be. But there is so much Hannibal doesn't tell him, so many secrets he keeps for himself and in those moments he feels alone, abandoned even.

Left behind in the dark corners of his mind, he wonders what the man is hiding in his silences, in the long pauses between words and phrases, until Will is so caught up in the prison that is his mind that he cannot focus on anything else but that.

“Why did you kill Doctor Sutcliffe?”

The words come out of his mouth before his brain can even process it and for a moment he doesn't even realize he is the one who uttered them.

Hannibal turns around and dries his hands on a towel.

“A peculiar question to ask. Why now?”

“It just... came to my mind.”

Will doesn't want to sound sorry or apologetic. But he does, he always does, like he thinks it's his fault if he still feels the need to ask questions; he hates it.

The man nods and goes to sit in front of him, his movements calm and collected as usual.

“You did not ask me “if” I killed him, but “why”. How did you know?”

Will shrugs and doesn't answer; if Hannibal can have secrets, so can he. It a subtle retaliation that doesn't make him happy, but still gives him a wicked thrill of pleasure; a sense of power he knows he doesn't really have.

When he doesn't reply, Hannibal continues.

“He simply knew too much. There was really no ill will this time. I may even say I was displeased to do it. But, alas, sometimes circumstances force us to do resolve to harsh measures.”

Hannibal's hands are perfectly still while he talks, his whole body is calm and firm, a specular image of the turmoil Will feels inside, of the way he never feels sure he can stop his hands from going to play with his hair or his legs from shaking.

“Do you worry? About getting caught.”

“Do you, Will?”

Will doesn't reply, but looks away from him, because the knowing smile in his eyes is hard to handle. 

“You keep answering questions with questions. That's rude.”

“Forgive me. Years of practicing psychiatry will do that to you, as you know very well. No, I do not worry about “getting caught” as you say. For the simple reason that avoiding capture for me is as simple as preparing a cup of good coffee.”

Will wants to find something to say, something that will shake things between them, that will cause the other man to have a reaction of any kind, anything that is not that condescending grin he feels the need to wipe away every time he sees it.

“I guess I could let them capture me, at least for a while, to know what it feels like. I would not be the first one of us to be curious about this kind of experience.”

“And then what? You'd just disappear?”

You'd leave me behind?, is his real question, but he doesn't finish it. But Hannibal knows and elegantly stretches a hand out to touch his; his skin is cold and comforting, Will's body clings to it without realizing when the fingers stroke his own with a care that makes him ache for more.

He looks up, Hannibal smiles at him. Will smiles back.

“Are you worried about the possibility I could abandon you? Do not be. I have no intention of leaving you behind, if the circumstances should bring us to that point. After all, leaving was always more in your inclinations than in mines.”

Will laughs softly at that and holds his hand tighter.

“I go and you stay. Yeah. That's how it goes.”

“I am immobile.”

“And I am fickle. You're the rock and I'm the river.”

Hannibal's hand encircle his and he feels safe in them, feels protected from the world, feels like nothing could possibly harm him while he's touching him: he never felt this way before, it's an addicting emotion, intoxicating almost, makes him feel dizzy.

“And I am glad to be that rock.”

Will knows he means it, that he believes every word that comes out of his mouth; he keeps those words inside of him, let them carve a place in his heart, drill inside it until they reach the core, where they rest.

The danger of trusting him with his life doesn't seem enough to pass on this, on this absolute intimacy he feels running between them.

When Hannibal comes closer and kisses him, cupping his face with his hands, Will holds him close and inhales his scent, feels the cold skin under his and for a moment can forget everything against his lips, with the other man completely around him.

A rock with skeletons and secrets buried underneath can still be a safe harbor where Will can close his eyes and rest.

It's still better than nothing.

 

\------

Jack Crawford waits until his last class to come and find him, hovers over the door while he tries to finish his lesson without betraying the nervousness of his body; ignoring his presence has never been easy, but now it's almost impossible. Will feels scrutinized, dissected by Jack's eyes and it almost makes him want to run away.

The man approaches him with an incredible caution and, while Will was expecting barely contained rage and aggression, he finds a weird sort of calm in him. It's confusing.

“I hope you feel better. Doctor Lecter told me you were sick.”

“I do, thanks. Sorry I... couldn't be there for the crime scene.”

Jack nods and waves his hand, like to take the conversation away, like it doesn't really matter. Will waits in silence, keeping more distance he should; but he can't help it: he's almost sure he can smell guilt on him; that he can smell Hannibal on him.

“Don't worry about that.”

Will is surprised, but still nods and for a while they don't talk: he can't keep eye contact with him, so he fumbles with the things in his bag.

“Doctor Lecter called from your phone.”

“Yeah, he was there. I asked him to come, when I was uhm really sick.”

The lies come out of his mouth with an ease that should shock him, how smooth and simple it is should make him feel even worst; instead he feels nothing at all. Will uses his lies like a shield, to protect himself and what's dear to him just like Hannibal does.

It's another link between them.

“You could have called Alana.”

He has nothing to say to that. Jack tries to look him in the eyes, but he does everything he can to avoid it, hides away inside himself until the man gives up. And inhales deeply, shaking his head.

“Is there something I should know? Something... that concerns you and Doctor Lecter perhaps?”

Will straightens his glasses and keeps looking away from him; he could say so many things right now: Jack is right there in front of him, this may be the only chance he will ever have.

He's the Chesapeake Ripper: he killed your trainee, he killed all those people, he took away their organs and ate them. He fed them to you, to me. But he's not what you think: the Ripper is just a mask, it's nothing; he's Death and death is all he can bring into this world. I know it, I know it so well.

But in the end he just shakes his head and fixes his glasses again. He hears Jack sigh.

"Sometimes I have the feeling I have... given you away somehow. And that doctor Lecter was just waiting there for it to happen. To get you. It doesn't make any sense, I know."

Will can feel a shiver run along his back, his heart gripped by a cold hand that strangles it slowly, until the blood almost freezes in his veins and a terrible realization explodes in his brain; Jack doesn't notice.

He's on the verge of fainting, but Jack is unfazed and peaceful as ever.

"It's getting late, you should go home and get some rest. You really look like hell!"

He attempts a smile Will cannot return and then starts to leave. 

Will has to grip his pedestal tight not to fall on his knees and even like that, he feels his legs weak and giving up under him; he tries to slow his breath, but for many, long minutes, he's unable to. The heaviness in his chest is painful. 

Jack's words wash over his over and over, resonating into his head: "I've given you away to him. I let him take you."...

He can't stop the almost hysterical laughter that erupts from his chest.

And keeps laughing until he can feel tears falling on his cheek; then stops and takes a few deep breaths.

When the silence is absolute and complete again around him, Will wipes his eyes and his face and finishes packing his thing slowly, his hands shaking a bit, but he can control them.

It's amazing, the serenity one can feel when the pieces of a previously broken life start putting themselves back together, when everything clicks and fits perfectly. Slowly, but with a steady and constant pace.

And when he looks at the bigger picture, Will can see the edges disappearing and order coming back in the form of a soft blur that makes everything mix and come together.

He drives to Hannibal's house with a smile on his face and his heart lighter and heavier at the same time.

 

\------

Two days later, they call him on a crime scene less than an hour from where he lives; his dogs crowd around him, barking and moaning softly, trying to hold him back, to prevent him from leaving.

They want to protect me, Will thinks; he leaves them some food and fresh water, pets them lovingly and inhales their familiar and reassuring scent before facing the snow and the cold outside.

Will knows it's really bad when he sees the look on Beverly's face: basically nothing can shake her usually, she's balanced and steady as a mountain in his mind, yet now her face is tight, her eyes are haunted and she seems relieved to see him, probably because it means she'll be able to get away from there, at least for a while.

She smiles when he approaches.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

The woman warms her hands against her thighs, Will looks at a distant point behind her to avoid her eyes. Beverly takes a deep breath and then grimaces, like she has just remembered something really awful.

“That bad?”

“I hope you didn't have breakfast.”

Will tries to reciprocate her smile, then goes to the house.

It's a small place, clean and normal, a place where you'd never imagine to see what appears in front of his eyes when he enters: saying that there's blood everywhere, would be an euphemism.

The rooms seems to be made of blood, there is so much of it he feels like drowning. The smell is unbearable, coppery and strong; the red is so vivid it feels like it's blinding him: Will covers his mouth and tries to breathe slowly, to calm down and cling to the certainty that he can let this wash over him if he hold tight enough to himself, to what he knows it's him, if he hides behind the barrier protecting him.

But that veil between him and the world is so thin now and the horrors in front of him are too much, they're overwhelming his perception, making the scene around him feel ten times more intense.

Let them in, a voice whispers in his mind, if you see, they'll pass through you and their power on you will diminish. Let them show you what they have to tell.

Will closes his eyes

And sees.

 

-

_I didn't come here to kill, it was not my intention. I just wanted to talk; the gun tucked in the back on my pants and the knife in my pocket were to give me strength, something real to hold on to, and in case things got bad, for self defense; I didn't like the idea of going there, this place frightened me, it always did._

_They frightened me._

_It was all their fault if it came to this; they shouldn't have laughed at me, they shouldn't have looked at me like I was less than a cockroach infesting their garden._

_I tried to explain them why I was there, but he didn't let me speak, kept interrupting me and she was laughing the whole time, smiling, happy to see me broken and wounded in front of them like a frightened deer._

_He pushed me, told me to leave before he lost his patience; she laughed even harder when I almost fell, stumbling on my feet and trying to recover my balance._

_I was in front of them with my heart on a plate, exposed and naked, and their repaid my trust with derision and cruelty; they stomped on my already broken soul and pissed on it for good measure._

_I wanted them to hurt for that, I wanted to see them as wretched as I was, I wanted them to cry and bleed and even then, it'd have not been enough.  
They would still not hurt as much as I do._

_I hit him with the gun and he fell on his knees; I hit him again and he lied on the floor, unconscious. She screamed, but didn't move, too surprised to do anything; I grabbed her and pushed her hard against the wall, knocking the air out of her lungs._

_She was terrified, I saw myself in her fear, breathed it in, let it fill my body._

_I cut her throat not to hear her scream again; I stabbed her until she was gutted in front of me, for mocking my pain, for laughing at the hole of sorrows I had in my heart._

_The blood made my hands slippery, but it smelled almost sweet in my nostrils, liberating, like the water of a baptismal font, washing over me and giving me a new birth, a new life. I was absolute, and for the first moment in my life I was truly conscious of myself._

_Everything had been taken away from me, all the things I held dear to my heart and I was left destroyed, lost, alone, hopeless.  
But now, it was my time to destroy._

_I only stopped and let her dead body go, when I heard him moving again. Before he could realize what had happened, I grabbed his head hard and made him see what I had done: he let out a desperate sound of pain and grief and it was my turn to smile._

_Then I took the knife again; I pressed it against his stomach.  
He didn't try to fight, I wondered why, he had always been so keen on beating me in the past: maybe he was too broken or still confused from the hit._

_I didn't know._

_I didn't care._

_All I cared about what cutting him open and pay him back for all the mocking, the beating, the pain he caused me._

_It was my turn now._

_This wasn't supposed to happen, but now I can't stop anymore._

_The levees are broken._

_This is my design._

 

Will doesn't realize he's outside until he feels his face pressing into the cold snow; somebody is suddenly at his side, but he doesn't know who, because his mind is completely spent and broken, shutting out everything and everyone.

He can barely breathe because his lungs hurt, his chest feels tight and heavy and he's like beast trapped in a cage that is his own body.

Will throws up into the snow; his stomach was empty and nothing but yellowish mucus comes out and after that, it hurts even more: he keeps coughing and trying to breathe.

He recognizes Beverly's voices, but has no way to answer to her, has to retreat inside himself to get away from everything, from what he saw: it was getting inside him, so intense it was ripping him apart and cutting him open to slip in, to own him completely.

Will tries to anchor himself to his reality, to push the memories that don't belong to him away and the only thought that comes to his mind, it's the feeling of Hannibal's hands on him, manhandling him and scratching his skin with his nail, biting his neck until he draws blood.

He moans softly and clings to those thoughts, remembering a million lives in a moment, feeling centuries sliding on his skin and purging his body from the filth of the violence he just witnessed.

Blood to wash away blood.

Will opens his eyes only when he feels calm enough to face the world again, hears Beverly sigh in relief and tries to get up, but he's still too weak to do anything. 

He looks around and out of the corner of his eyes, sees two shadows covered in blood staring at him.

He looks away.

 

\------

“Why are we still having therapy sessions?”

Will looks around nervously, trying not to meet Hannibal's eyes while still keeping him under control: not that he's afraid of anything in particular, he just wants to be aware of what the other man is doing.

Hannibal says nothing for a while, his hands resting in his lap, his legs crossed, staring right at him with his kind and understanding psychiatrist's face on; Will wants to run away from the room, feels almost claustrophobic in there, trapped between those walls like a scared animal.

It's not Hannibal's fault, not entirely at least, but the other man's presence is overwhelming, fills the space around him, taking all the air away, and Will's nerves are raw and exposed to the point they almost hurt.

They haven't seen each other for a few days and now he has troubles readjusting to the feeling of being examined by him; he can still smell the crime scene in his nostrils, can still see it when he closes his eyes and the thought of him desperately clinging to his memories with Hannibal to get over it, seems to have tainted everything around them.

He needs time to get out of his own head, to purge himself completely of those thoughts: but there he is, sitting in front of him like a well behaved puppy who does everything he's told, waiting for him to say something.

Will remembers times when he did everything in his power to defy him; remembers running away with the precise intention of never going back, of leaving him forever just to see what he would have done once realized it.

Hannibal allowed him to, seemed not to pay much attention to his absence, to accept it with the same grace and lack of care he reserved to everything else around him: but Will knew better.

Will could see the fury in his eyes, the rage building under his skin, kept hidden only by his legendary self control and by the fact he could never unleash it on him. He was protected by the devastating strength of the feelings Hannibal had and has for him; so he kept pulling and pulling, wondering when the rope would break.

But he never got to see it; he could never stay away from long: his heart and his body needed Hannibal more than he would ever admit. And so they do now too, desperately.

Will needs him, longs Hannibal to tell him that everything will be just fine in the end, to chase away nightmares and dark thoughts with soft touches and kind kisses, with the hard pressure of his body against his own.

He just wants to cling to him and let him wrap his darkness around him like a shield, protecting him from everything.

Hannibal can be as destructive as an hurricane, can kill as easily as he pours himself a glass of wine, but when it comes to him, there's a subtle weakness in his gestures, a care that no one but Will can see. Something that he wishes for, that he treasures.  
Pain and pleasure are intertwined for them, they can't have one without the other. 

But he doesn't say any this of course; he just waits in silence.

“Jack Crawford told me you had to leave the last crime scene in a hurry, that you were very shaken by it. Asked me if I could help you overcome the feelings it generated in you so you could go back to your work without that weight crushing your shoulders and clouding your ability to see.”

Will grimaces and keeps looking at the walls of his study.

“Do you feel like talking to me about what troubled you?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Look at me, Will.”

And he just has too, because in that voice there's a subtle, but firm command hidden and he feels compelled to obey; Hannibal's eyes are calm and cold as always, but there's also a hint of worry in them that soothes something inside him softly, makes him almost wanting to relax and allow him to take control of him.

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Not much.”

“I see. Bad dreams?”

Will nods.

“What was so different about this crime scene? What shocked you so deeply you had to leave it?”

He doesn't want to answer; he wants to stop talking, wants Hannibal to kiss him and take the words away from him, burying them between their lips until they'll wither and die.

“I... I don't know. It felt... raw. Like there were no filters between myself and what was around me.”

His voice is soft and shaky, scared almost; Will hates it, wants to scream instead of speaking like that, wants to tell Hannibal that he cannot keep digging into his wounds and in his soul, that he just wants to stop feeling all this.

And he hates even that, feeling so exposed and weak and wounded, to sound like a child even if it's just in his own mind.

"I knew those feelings were not mine, I was not confused about who I was, but... I couldn't leave them behind, let them wash over me: they were... scarring me, clawing to my skin. I... I felt like he felt, but it was different, like he was inside me and I couldn't shake him off."

Hannibal takes a deep breath and Will closes his eyes for a moment, allowing the silence to fill his mind.

"You felt so close to this killer, because you had the feeling to share something profound with him. You could tell the difference between the two of you, but not between what was hiding inside your heart and what was lurking in your killer's."

Will shakes his head and presses his fingers at the bridge of his nose, hoping the fits of pain will clear his head; he tries to keep breathing slowly, but he feels something heavy on his chest and it's hard even to focus on the steady process of inhaling and exhaling.

"His desperation was overwhelming, it made all my walls crumble; it was like a flood I couldn't stop."

Hannibal doesn't say anything for a while; when Will looks slightly up, he finds him looking at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes, something turbid that doesn't allow him to see clearly.

His mind flashes him the crime scene again: blood everywhere, the smell of decay and death filling his lungs, a body cut open and posed like a grotesque work of art in the center of the room; he feels like throwing up and grips the armchair to steady himself somehow.

"Perhaps you should allow me to see the case file, so maybe I may be able to offer you my insight and better understand what triggered such a harsh reaction in you."  
Will tries to resist, the rational part of his mind, the one that still fights against this destructive game between them, that refuses to accept the bloody link that keeps them entangled together, reminding him that Hannibal is a killer, a murderer, that his opinion is poisonous.

But what good bearing this weight alone is going to do to him?, he thinks with a sight, before handling him the manila folder, waiting in silence.  
The man takes his time to go through the crime scenes photos, to examine each one with the right amount of attention, keeping his thoughts hidden behind a perfect mask of calm.

“So much anger. He didn't know he had it in him until it started to come out. Then he could not take it back into him and it spilled everywhere. There were no forts or barriers anymore between his rational self and the hidden desires he had ignored for so long.”

Will bites his tongue to stop himself from moaning: he nods and the look in Hannibal's eyes is cutting his heart open, trying to find the same feelings inside him; it's almost erotic, to know how clearly the man can see him, how pleased he is to find the same darkness he has within him in Will.

“He inflicted on the man.”  
“The woman... she wasn't part of his design. He punished her for mocking him, for laughing, but that was her only fault, he had no reason to... to... dishonor her. Killing her was enough.”

“Unlike the other victim. That one was much more personal for your killer. This man, Brian Lawson, took something away from him. Or he thought he did. The hate and anger and disgust he felt towards him were absolute. He wanted to deprive him of everything he could take, he wanted to pay him back with the same coin.”

Will snorts and feels his stomach tight itself in a knot that takes away the air.

“I honestly don't know what he was trying to take away from him by strangling him with his own intestines.”

Hannibal inclines his head slightly to the side and a wicked smile appears on his lips.

“He was taking away his dignity. First he killed the woman he loved, but that was not enough, was it?”

Will knows Hannibal is intentionally poking at the wounds inside him, that he's trying to expose the wires and the nerves of his heart to take a better look inside and find all the pieces of him he needs to put him back together just like he wants him to be.

A marvelous work of art, a painting that drips blood, a sculpture made of mutilated bodies. A totem of bones and corpses of his own making.  
Will is Hannibal's masterpiece and deep inside him, he knew it from the start; and it shouldn't feel so sweet, so flattering, so loving. It should feel wrong and disgusting, but Will is rotten to the core at this point and doesn't care anymore.

“No, it wasn't.”

“So he cut him open, exposed him in a shameful way, destroyed his facade of normality and decency completely. Painted it anew with his own colors. He had been ridiculed and wounded his whole life. Now it was his time to get back at the ones who had made him miserable. It is a beautiful way to get revenge. Destroying and erasing what made us weak to deprive our enemies of any weapon against us. And then unleash hell upon them.”

Will nods, shaking slightly, feeling his body torn between the disgust he feels towards what their killer has done and the creeping admiration he feels for it. For the way Hannibal makes it sound: so twisted and fascinating.

“Fury is so powerful and so beautiful in its way of being absolute. It blinds men, but at the same time gives them the illusion of being almost like gods, capable of doing anything. Utter and complete destruction can be a marvelous sight.”

“From destruction, something new is born. But he wasn't trying to create anything. He was destroying because he was drunk on pain and rage. There was nothing poetic about what he did. It was only brutal.”

Hannibal nods and looks amused by the way he spoke. 

"I agree. There was no grace or elegance in this, only the discovery of terrible desires. And I do believe that a man with so much anger inside, has a long list of people he hates and wants to get back at."

"So we should expect more bodies."

"He will not stop until he manages to reacquire what was taken away from him."

Will feels like he knows a lot more of what he says. And wonders about what he could do blinded by the same amount rage, what happens when the levees finally breaks.

Hannibal Lecter is a man of absolute control that only recedes when the man himself wants it to, and always in a carefully monitored way: there is a terrible power hidden inside him, something that once had destroyed whole cities in the blink of an eye, leaving behind carnage, rivers of blood and fields of human bones.

Will tries to swallow but his tongue feels thick and uncomfortable in his mouth; those hands can caress him with the gentleness of a lover and at the same time butcher a man only because the man feels like. He doesn't know which aspect he finds more arousing, as he thinks about them closing around his neck and squeezing the life out of him slowly, slowly.

So slowly he could savor every moment of it.

“What would you do if you were in the same situation?”

The words come out of his mouth in a soft, inquiring whisper; in Hannibal's eyes he sees a sudden sparkle of interest and danger that sends a shiver along his spine.

He smiles and Will bites his lips again, feeling his hands and his whole body hitch to touch, the need to wrap himself around him and sink in his dissolution to the point where he'll be nothing inside the other man, with him owning and surrounding him.

“What are asking, Will? If I would cut open a man and strangle him with his viscera if pushed to the same degree of rage your killer felt when he did it?”

Will has to keep eye contact because Hannibal refuses to let him go, keeps them chained together like that.

“Everybody has a breaking point. Even you.”

Hannibal doesn't reply for a long time, just stares, with flashes of red flickering in his orbits, flexing his fingers gracefully and choosing his words carefully, one at the time; Will can almost see his brain work.  
Can feel his skin burn under his gaze.

“I never had any reason to go that far, Will. You are aware of this. And even in that eventuality, I sincerely doubt I would do something so inelegant.”

“But you would do something. If... if somebody took away something precious from you or... or you were betrayed... you would do something. Wouldn't you?”

There is so much hinted in his awkward words, in the way they sound half afraid and half hopeful, in the way his body seems to be divided between his desire to hear him say “yes, I would butcher entire nations if they took you away from me” and the fear for what that could mean.

Of what Hannibal could do – to him? To somebody else? He doesn't know which one – if his barriers broke.

“Oh, Will. I assure you that in that case, what I would leave behind would make quite a sight.”

Will licks his lips and has to close his eyes, breathing deeply, while images that scare and attract him at the same time flash inside him.

In the end he simply nods.

“Now, it is getting quite late, I believe we have indulged in our session for too long, how time flies never ceases to impress me. Would you like to join me for dinner tonight? We have not eaten together in a while and you know how much I worry about your health and the quality of your life style.”

He ponders his answer for a moment.

“Yeah, I'd like that.”

After all, how could he refuse?

 

\------

He's splayed on Hannibal's bed after dinner, the other man between his spread legs, kissing and lapping at his stomach, biting the soft flesh of his belly until Will moans; worshiping his body with hands and mouth, treating him like he's fragile, precious, and important. It's a feeling that makes his head spin.

His mind always feels so light and peaceful in moments like these, when everything can be forgotten and he's only a body responding to the stimuli Hannibal inflicts on him: a finger brushing against his nipple, teeth and tongue playing with his navel; everything makes him feel wanted and owned at the same time.

Will takes slow, deep breaths in the silence and the darkness that surround them.

“You didn't like killing Miriam Lass...”

Hannibal doesn't stop licking him and Will keeps moaning under him, trying to push him away without success; he's hard between his legs and can feel the man's erection pressing against his thigh. The powerful feeling this gives him is delicious, gives him a sense of power and makes another strangled sound come out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Only when Hannibal is satisfied, he rises his head and looks right in the eyes, making him shiver.

“It was an unfortunate circumstance.”

“She was a lamb, she had done nothing to you, in your eyes she was innocent and you felt it was wrong, ending her life so early...”

Hannibal smiles and he feels exposed, not only because he's naked and trapped under him, but because the man can read inside him like he's an open book and his thought and his heart are displayed on his sleeve like a flag. Will looks away but it makes no difference: he's aroused, tired, overstimulated and he feels every touch multiplied and amplified.

The man observes him and he can almost feel him reaching out inside him and stroking the nerves and the gears of his soul; he sighs and bites his lips.

“Do you consider yourself a lamb, Will?”

Will looks surprised by the question and frowns.

“No, I'm not a lamb. There's nothing innocent left inside me.”

“Yet you do consider me a wolf.”

It's his turn to smile now, running a hand in his hair, enjoying messing them up even though he knows Hannibal doesn't mind: he takes his small victories and pleasures where he can find them.

“A lion, more than a wolf.”

Hannibal bites down really hard on his belly and Will gasps and trashes on the bed, trying to get away from the touch and leaning into it at the same time, moaning loudly and grabbing his shoulders. His lips are red when he looks up again, smiling. Will feels his dick getting even harder.

“Lions are apex predators, so are wolves, they sit at the top of the food chain; all the other creatures in their territories are potential prey for them. Do you see yourself as a prey, Will?”

He wonders about the question for a while: in his mind, he sees himself half clouded by the dark shadows of the night and half exposed in daylight, cold on one side and impossibly warm on the other; in his mind, there's blood on his lips as well.

“Maybe I'm a lioness.”

Hannibal laughs against his skin, then rises up and kisses him hard, making him taste his body and his blood in his mouth, licking his lips and Will grabs him hard, clawing at his shoulders.

“Lionesses are the ones who do most of the hunts. They are smaller, leaner, they can hide more easily, wait for their prey and ambush them quickly when they less expect it.”

He doesn't reply, but smiles at him and Hannibal looks proud of him.

“Perhaps it is me who should be afraid of you, of all this darkness hiding there in your heart...”

Will allows more kisses and abandons himself under him.

“Eat me alive...”

Hannibal doesn't say anything, but he lowers his head and bites his neck.

 

\------

There are nights when Will cannot sleep no matter how hard he tries, when he lies on his back and stares at the grey ceiling, surrounded by the sounds of the night and by the muffled breaths of his sleeping dogs.

Something inside his head pokes at the sides of his brain, at the nerves inside his mind and makes his skin feel electric and overstimulated, like there's a switch set on on he cannot find a way to turn off.

Lukewarm water slides down his throat when he empties the glass on his bedside; he breathes in deeply the scent of dog, dust and loneliness around him.

Will closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, dwells in his thoughts so deep he uncovers forgotten memories of his childhood, mixed with others as old as time, recollections of past lives.

He puts his body and his mind in a trance-like state, where he's aware of his surroundings, but in a muffled and distant way, and everything around him is filtered, while he loses himself in the deepest corners of his psyche, letting weird jumps and associations do the thinking for him, opening secret doors he didn't even know were there.

There is something sinister and magic about it, that intertwines itself around him like ivy, digging into his skin.  
Will takes slow, deep breathes and remembers...

 

He had always been a lonely kid, too caught up in his own mind to fit in well with the other children: always the new boy, always different.

So he used to spend a lot of time in the libraries of the many cities he lived in, feeling more at ease surrounded by their silence, protected by it; his father never cared about what he did and he never found the desire to try to include him in that part of his life. They were better off left to their own devices, in their separated worlds that only barely touched.

There was a book, he remembers now, a fairy tales collection for teenagers and adult, a marvelous volume with beautiful illustrations of horrible and tragic stories that were able to take him away completely from reality and submerge him in the worlds of the stories.

Will, after reading it half a dozen time, the day before he and his father were supposed to leave for another city, stole it, sneaking the book into his bag and feeling his heart heavy and guilty for days after; he wonders now what happened to it, maybe it's in one of the boxes he keeps in the attic, collecting dust, maybe he lost it.

He focuses on one of the stories in particular and his mind reenacts it in front of his half closed eyes, images flooding them like a movie.

It was the story of a woman who got cursed by an evil witch to be turned into a cow, while retaining a human mind and body shape: ashamed, desperate and hopeless, she retired in the woods, hiding from the world in a small house, living as simply as she could, always covering her face with thick black robes.

She didn't meet anyone for years, grew accustomed to loneliness and silence, feeling safe and protected there, all alone, with no one to mock or abuse her. Until one day, when a wounded hunter appeared in front of her house.

She tried to ignore his moans of pain, but her heart was gentle and good and in the end she brought him in her house and nursed him back to health. He improved, but the little food she had was not enough to make him strong again.

So the woman, because her heart couldn't bear the thought of letting the man die, started to feed him her own flesh, cutting thin strips of meat from her inner thighs, biting her lips to hide her pain and her tears, focusing on the fact that she was helping him, that she was saving a life with her act. In her heart, she was already in love with the hunter, who smiled at her kindly while eating, thanking her and holding her clothed hand.

She smiled, feeling that her life finally had a purpose, that all she had to endure could still bring life and joy to someone else; she ignored the pain, the weakness for the loss of blood, and kept going and going and going...

Will doesn't remember the ending, but thinking about that immolation and that absolute sacrifice, makes his mind wander in thoughts he tries to repress when he's awake, putting them in the darkest corners of his mind until they're silent again.

But now the edges and the barriers inside his brain are smudged and blurred, he can't see them anymore, they're slipping away under his fingers and he can't cling to them; so he abandons himself on the mattress, breathing slowly, filling his lungs and then letting the air go in a regular and monotone motion.

He thinks about Hannibal eating him, about seeing his lips red with his blood, his flesh in his mouth, eating him raw and clawing at his skin until the meat underneath is exposed and dripping, wet with red rivers.

He imagines himself spread on his dinner table, naked, with Hannibal perfectly dressed above him, smiling and caressing his face gently; his hands are cold against his cheek, as is the blade that slashes his abdomen, cutting through the tissues and the skin.

Instead of screaming, Will moans, kisses his palm, licking away his blood, smearing it on his face; Hannibal kisses him hard, allowing him to taste himself in his mouth, whispers loving words to his ear, brushes away tears and blood, before lowering his head on him and taking another bite.

Eat my heart, he wants to say, eat me whole, honor every part of me, I want to be part of you, I want to be inside you always, to be with you wherever you go. I want to forget we are two separate entities; I want us to be one; one body, one mind, one soul.

I don't want anyone to be able to pull me away from you ever again, I can't bear it; I don't want to die and forget again, I don't want to lose you, don't make me lose you...

He cries of joy while Hannibal eats him alive, taking small bites and chewing slowly, slowly, slowly...

That's when Will snaps out of his trance, breathing fast to the point where his lungs hurt; he's hard between his legs, his body covered in sweat. He feels nauseous, but not because of the dream.

He feels sick because it was a dream, because it wasn't true.

In his mind, Hannibal's eyes were cruel and red, famished and dangerous, like a rabid animal ready to attack him; sometimes, he looks like that even in real life: like he's ferocious and merciless with him too, fighting against his own urges to pin Will against the wall – to impale him on antlers – and make him bleed, preparing him to be consumed and destroyed.

Will gets up and drinks some water, his legs shaky, his mind haunted by his own dreams.

His brain feels dull and numb, his tongue feels uncomfortable in his mouth when lets out a moan that sounds so desperate when one of his dogs go brush against his leg in a futile attempt to calm him.

There's nothing calm about his current state of mind; a violent storm clouds his judgment and his thoughts: he wants to see how far he can push Hannibal, wants to savor his rage, his untamed fury, to feel it on his body while the man claws at his flesh and tears him apart.

He wants to feel ashamed because of these desires, but he can't: feels a hole in his soul and aches to see them become true.

His breath calms down after a while and he feels sore and tired, worn out and weak; his reflection in the bathroom mirror almost scares him, dark circles under his eyes and a haunted look on his face.

When he goes back to bed after showering – and jerking off under the splashes of water imagining Hannibal's strong and cruel hands on his body – his closes and he drifts into sleep without realizing it.

If he dreams, he doesn't remember.


	2. Anabasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This came out far longer than I expected, as usual. I should apologize but I'm not going to. A special thanks goes to Anne for supporting me and reading when this whole thing was still a mess. I love you <3  
> Also, before I forget, again, I'm also on tumblr ([samiferist](http://samiferist.tumblr.com/) ) so feel free to message me if you feel like.  
> 2\. I want to stress a few point for this chapter, because I think it's needed: this is an AU mostly, so it'll not follow canon events past “Buffet Froid”. There may be some reference, but the events will have their own, different course. All the “violence” between Hannibal and Will is absolutely consensual.  
> 3\. There are a few myths scattered in this chapter; also, I haven't being explicit about who Jack and Abigail are, but I'm curious to see if you get it ;). in Abigail's case, however, it'll be better addressed in the next part.  
> 4\. There is some gore/violence in this part so, beware, but, since I suck at writing action and, I'm not sure how that turned out. Sorry, I'm the worst D:  
> 5\. My first language is not English and I don't have an English beta reader. So please excuse the grammar mistakes that you'll probably find.  
> 6\. I love comments!

Hannibal was right of course, he always is: they find another body not even four days after the first two and this new crime scene is even worse than the previous one; Zeller throws up and both Price and Beverly are shaking when they come out of the room.

"You think you've seen everything, doing this job; thank God there's always some new psycho ready to remind you that you haven't."

Will wants to run away again when he sees the carnage around him, but tries to stay put, feeling Jack's eyes fixed on his back, piercing through it, holding him still right there where he is.

There's a man in his fifty hanging from the ceiling, a rope made by his own intestines around his neck, the body swinging back an forth: the expression on his face is of pure horror and to Will, it feels like he's looking right at him, with his entrails oozing out of him and blood all over. Hannibal's words echo in his mind: humiliation, stripping his victims of their dignity, reducing them to a mass of ruined flesh that holds nothing of their previous humanity anymore...

Jack is asking him something, but when Will tries to speak, he finds out that he can't, because he's too scared he may vomit if he dares to open his mouth. The rage, the anger is tangible around him, almost physical and he doesn't even has to slip into the mind of the killer to understand that he's just getting started with this, that he finally found his call and is not going to stop until his work is finished.

His revenge will be terrible and merciless, like the wrath of God himself, that brings down false idols and nonbelievers alike.

And I know what the wrath of a god feels like, I've seen it: I've bathed in the blood of the fallen ones, I've tasted the destruction and the ruination in my mouth and it was a promise of love to me; his thoughts are mixed with the ones of the killer and only outside he can breathe again.

His mind is so heavy, haunted and his skin feels dirty and wrong, hanging in weird angles full of shadows on his bones; he wishes he could strip it off of him and wash it clean. 

But then he'll only see the water go red; Will could keep trying and trying to wash his soul and never manage it; it's too late for that, for him.

A young man approaches him shyly, startling him: the victim's son, Paul Mason, the one who found the body; Will looks at him for a very long time while he talks, examines his features, barely listens to what he says, but catching bits of phrases like "I was away with someone, a... a friend, for a few days... didn't hear from him... was worried".

It feels like he's not there, like he's a ghost; or more like everything and everyone around him is one, because nothing seems real: he's cold all over, trapped in thick ice that takes all his perception away.

While he tries to focus and to make the headache that is devastating his head go away, something dark creeps inside him, a thought so wrong it makes him shiver and bite his lips, licking them afterward, feeling filthy and disgusting even just for considering the idea. But now it doesn't want to go away, it clings to him like a vice, smiling wickedly at him with white teeth stained with innocent blood.

Without thinking, he invites Paul for a cup of coffee, feeling sick just at the thought, but at that point he's acting according to actions and wishes that are not his own, but those of a demon living inside him, who is feeding off his soul and turning him into an even worst monster that he already is.

The man looks confused, but follows him anyway, too struck with grief and need for company to think straight; Will ignores almost everything he says while they're sitting in the mostly empty coffee shop, sometimes smiles, tries not to scream out loud and push him away when he puts an hand on his arm and squeezes it lightly.

Will can't help but seeing the cracks and the taints inside himself now; he's wrong, corrupted, what he's considering doing is horrible and some parts of his soul still fight to make him stop, to bring him back to what he used to be: a human being with an innocence inside there is no longer there, that was sucked out of his body like a venom by ice cold lips and hands.

The coffee is too hot, but he drinks it anyway, welcoming that pain as a way to make amends for what he's thinking, for what he wants to do; and for the fact that it gives him a thrill that is almost of arousal.

Was he always like this? A cruel creature ready to sacrifice somebody on the altar of his desires, or it's Hannibal the one who has twisted and manipulated him into becoming it? Will hates himself, but savors the shot of pleasure his thoughts give him.

It's just a thought, he tells himself, it doesn't mean I'll act on it, it's a savage fantasy, I'll leave it behind myself soon enough.

They stay there for not even an hour and Will almost doesn't say a word; the other man seems to find it comforting; he'd be running away screaming if he could read my mind, he thinks and bites his tongue when he almost says it out loud.

He doesn't want to be like this, the lioness that waits in the dark and attacks helpless preys when they least expect it.

But before they go separate ways, he still gives Paul his card. With his personal number written on the back.

\----

Jack is so desperate to find leads on the case, thanks to Freddie Lounds and her venomous articles attacking the police and the FBI alike pointing out the lack of progresses and the body count, two more victims barely two days after the old man, that he asks Hannibal for a consult.

There are no connections between the victims, except for the way there were killed; they need help, Jack tells him when he tries to argue against the decision.

Will can't focus on the discussion between the two men, because seeing Hannibal in the FBI offices, exactly where he shouldn't be, makes him feel dizzy and so nervous his hands are shaking.

A part of him wants to scream, "Look! He's right there! The killer you've been looking for for so long is sitting right in front of you and you cannot see him! You think he's your friend, your ally. You trust him, but you should run away instead"; another just prays he'll never have to be in that office in different circumstances: with Hannibal handcuffed and under arrest.

Hannibal has a thick veil of mist and shadows around him, protecting and hiding him from any possible threat, an armor of tormented souls that shields and slides around Will as well, caressing his skin and making him shiver; when he leans in unconsciously, he catches the man smiling at him; Jack remains unaware of everything.

It's infuriating how Hannibal can twist his emotions to the point where he doesn't even know if they're still his own or if they have been planted there by him, carving their place inside him like a parasite, living off his beating heart and his empathy.

Will wants to break that perfect composure, wants to shake it off of him hard and harshly, to leave him disheveled and breathless.

When they are left alone for a few minutes, Will casually brings up that he learned nothing from one of the victims son while having coffee with him, that he left him his personal number hoping he may remember something useful; Hannibal inclines his head and looks at him with fiery red eyes that drip anger and jealousy for a moment.

Yes, Will thinks but says nothing, look at me like that, it's all I want. I'm dangerous as well and I want you to know it, I want you to feel the devastating power of your desire to keep me only for yourself; I want to lick is off your skin and taste it on my lips.

Hannibal laughs softly in the end, his eyes still red, and his hand hard and painful, when it clamps around Will's wrist, holding it so tight it leaves a red bruise; he moans.

"Be careful what you wish for."

The whisper makes him shiver.

\----

“It's a dangerous game.”

He's playing chess with Abigail in the glasshouse of her hospital, the board between them sitting on a shaky table; Will looks up, but the girl is not looking back at him: her eyes are fixed on the game, one of his lost pieces in her small hands, pressing against her lips.

“You're better than me at it, I never liked chess much.”

Abigail inclines her head to the side and finally he can see her face, her blue eyes shining with amusement; just like Hannibal's do, a part of this mind gently reminds him.

“Too much like a real fight?”

Will tries to smile, but only manages half a grin and nods; he moves a piece without really caring about the game and Abigail doesn't look back to the board, but keeps staring at him, entertainment on her face, but with something darker hidden behind it.

And still, he finds some peace there with her; the girl has a quiet and simple way to lift burdens off of his shoulders for a while, offering a gentle comfort without asking for anything in return: for now at least.

Abigail ponders her next words for a while, taking small, deep breaths and examining his face; Will feels under scrutiny and has to force himself not to look away, to resist the temptation to flee he still cannot overcome.

"Hannibal is teaching me to play Go."

"He must be good at it."

She nods and moves another piece, eating one of Will's paws; he grimaces.

"He is. But it's to be expected isn't it? I mean... is there something he can't do?"

Will really smiles this time and Abigail laughs softly; she's different now and sometimes it's like he's seeing her for the first time. In her eyes there is a self awareness that fights against her still child-like features, that makes them harsher and darker, like there's a shadow on her face.

He knows some of it it's because of him, of what happened the day he shot Garret Jacob Hobbs and destroyed Abigail's previous life forever; but it's not just that: it's like she has finally found her place in the world and expertly managed to fit in it, slipping under boundaries and fences; appearing common and boring when she's neither.

She looks normal to everyone; but to him, she has too much of Hannibal mixed with some parts of him he's not sure he likes to see reflected in her face, in the way she talks and acts.

"What else you two do together?"

Abigail's eyebrow rises for a split second at the implications she reads in that question; then she just shrugs.

"He brings me books and CDs. I finished reading a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories last night."

"Poe used to terrify me when I was younger. Aren't you worries about nightmares?"

"Nah, not anymore."

I bet you're not, Will thinks, sighing, you're basically a nightmare yourself: you stay at the edges of the picture and wait for the right moment to strike, just like me. And yet you're nothing like me sometimes: you ooze evil and malice and you dwell into it like it's a shadow you bring with you always. Sometimes I look at you and I see his face reflected in your eyes.

But he doesn't say any of that.

There's a link between him and Abigail that goes beyond saving her life and killing her father; it's a blood link that runs deeper than anything else, something that is a direct offspring of lives so far away from what they are now that Will almost manages to forget them sometimes; or wishes he could forget, pretends to.

Something that has a name he cannot utter, not even to himself in his own head; Abigail seems to sense his discomfort and lays back against her chair, her hands sliding on her slim thighs, her long air half covering her face.

"Are you ok?"

Will nods, but there's nothing convincing about his body language.

"Hannibal told me you have a very bad case."

"He shouldn't talk about these things with you. And he should... stay as far away from the FBI as possible."

Saying it out loud it's actually comforting, because giving voice to his fears and his doubts doesn't make them go away, but sharing that weight still helps; they're whispering now: nobody is listening to them, they're alone there, but one can never be too careful. And Hannibal's reassurances that there is no way he could get caught unless he wanted to, don't put his heart to rest, instead seem to trigger a worrying paranoia that grips his chest painfully.

Abigail ignores his comment.

"He told me something about... the son of a victim. That you were hoping he could give you some information..."

Will doesn't say anything; the game is forgotten and now between him and Abigail there are rivers of secrets passing through their eyes, through what he doesn't say and she pretends not to know. He wishes now that they had never found her, that she could have stayed the normal teenager she was supposed to be, that she deserved to be, not a girl with dark blue eyes full of nightmares and blood on her hands.

"Are you sure you want to keep playing?"

"We can stop if you want, you're winning anyway."

"You know what I mean."

Will takes a deep breath: and yes, he knows, of course he knows; he should be surprised that she does but he's not. Everything slides through them and melts in between.

"Are you worried about me?"

"No, not about you. But he's a dangerous beast. You need to handle him with care."

Abigail bites her nails and then looks at her fingers: her blood red nail polish is chipped and uneven, but she doesn't seem to mind; normally she wouldn't be allowed to put on any kind of makeup but Hannibal has very deep pockets and a suave voice that can persuade you to do everything he wants. 

There's a subtle tightness in her body that speaks of bad dreams she doesn't want to talk about, of fears she hides to appear strong: a part of him wants to hold her, another wants to push her away.

"Are you worried about yourself?"

She looks at him with a knowing light in her eyes; tilts her head again and then shakes it.

"No, I'm not."

"You said he's dangerous."

"He is. But not for you or me. It's not for us I'm worried about and you know it. You play it dumb, but you perfectly understand what I mean."

Abigail makes a pause, like something important just came back to her and she's trying to find the best way to phrase it.

"You used to think he was going to hurt me once, I remember it. You were scared he was never going to love me, that he would be too afraid to lose your attention and take out his frustration on the outsider, on me. Then one day you realized he loved me because I'm half you and half him, that the bond between us is too strong to be ever cut. That he sees too much of you in me to be ever able to hurt me."

Will wonders when she became so wise, when the scared girl he met only a few months before, turned into a creature ready to swallow you whole if you let her, to choke you with her words.

He nods at her and breathes softly.

"Are you sure this is what you want? Somebody is gonna get hurt and it's gonna be ugly. Especially for you, you'll be the one who'll feel the guilt."

He rubs the bridge of his nose and lets out a humorless laugh.

"You're the one who's speaking, yet I hear his voice coming out of your mouth."

Abigail's smile is all teeth and it makes him shiver.

"There are... things I need to do, that I need to know. I can't keep looking at a mask, I need to see what's under it."

The girl holds out her hands across the board and Will takes them: they're cold; he's not surprised, so he keeps them in his owns until he feels them warming.

When her nails suddenly dig into his flesh until they draw blood, he doesn't even flinch, keeps his eyes locked in hers and focuses on the pain spreading in his hands, savoring it, welcoming it.

They stay like that for a while, in silence; and when Abigail finally lets go, Will brings the wounds to his mouth and licks away the blood, tasting it coppery and salty against his tongue; the girl smiles at him again, a smile he knows far too well.

With a handkerchief and some water, he cleans the small cuts that have already stopped bleeding and takes slow, deep breaths, focuses on his heartbeat and on the muffled sounds around them.

When he looks up again, Abigail shrugs.

"As long as you know and are sure of what you're doing..."

"I'm not doing anything..."

"Yet. But maybe it's really time you start making your own choices and rules, instead of playing the game he wants you to play."

"Is it even possible? To stop playing it?"

He's tired, so tired, he wants to sleep, but he's scared of nightmares or, even worst, dreams that will leave him aching and picturing scenarios he fears, but that taste sweet in his mouth.

"You always manage to."

Will smiles at her.

"Let's go back inside? I'm tired of chess anyway."

He follows her.

\----

When nothing happens for a few days, no new murders, no calls from people who should stay far away from him for their own good, Will starts to think that it must be a sign that he was taking things too far and that he must take a step back, reconnect with his reality and disconnect himself from the evil thoughts that were haunting him.

He still has troubles sleeping, but his nightmares go back to be something that he knows how to manage, a constant throb that, at least, doesn't threaten to wreck his mind and his unstable sanity.

Jack puts the whole unity under a huge stress to solve the case, but when the trail starts to go cold, even he is forced to make them rest: they have no clues, they're not closer to catch the killer, and all they can do is wait for more bodies. It's frustrating, it's wrong, but there's nothing they can do about it.

During this time, Will barely sees Hannibal: one evening they have dinner together with Jack to discuss the investigations and he keeps an amount of distance from him that earns him a frown and a dangerously displeased look from the other man; he ignores it and spends the evening mostly in silence, drinking too much wine and become increasingly restless.

When Jack is about to leave, Hannibal persuades him to stay a while longer, trying to sound as casual as possible when he argues, against his protests, that he needs to regain some control over himself and allow the intoxication to wear off before driving home; but Will still sees the skeptical look in the agent's eyes, even though he doesn't press or argues or asks anything.

But he'll have to deal with it soon enough and that makes him feel stupidly angry; once alone, without Jack's overwhelming presence, they could do and say so much: instead they stay in silence, too much space between them and Will ignores as much as he can the building desire to touch him that he feels in his body, the need to feel Hannibal around him.

He falls asleep on the couch with Hannibal's eyes fixed on him, without even realizing it; wakes up in his guest bedroom, with a cold breakfast waiting for him in the kitchen and Hannibal already gone.

The other side of the bed still bears the imprint of the other man's body, but the reassurance that he didn't sleep alone does little to ease the burning he feels in his chest.

Will doesn't know where this disappointment comes from, fighting to come out of him: if it's for himself and his inability to put into words what he has buried in his heart, or for Hannibal, who keeps granting him an overwhelming amount of space he doesn't want, that wears him thin and makes him feel on the verge of breaking into a million pieces.

He still eats everything in his plate, drinks his coffee and tries to savor the peace around him, but finds that he can't: the house feels so alien and different when he's alone in it, too quiet, too dark, with too many secrets hidden in it.

He shivers and leaves as soon as he can.

Paul Mason calls him during his lunch break that day: his voice is gentle and soft while he awkwardly tells him that he thought about his dad and that he may have remembered something that could help the investigations, even though he's not sure and it sounds stupid now that he thinks about it.

Will takes a deep, deep breath and thinks he should tell him to come to the FBI, to tell Jack what he remembered, meet him in a safe environment where his mind would not be allowed to wander where it shouldn't and he'll be forced to stay on track.

Instead they meet in a cafe again, an almost empty place that gives them too much freedom to talk undisturbed.

“Thank you so much for listening to me, I... I really appreciate it.”

Will smiles as much as he can, but his face muscles feel paralyzed by nervousness and a ball of guilt and remorse that presses on his chest and make it hard for him to breathe; again, he barely speaks or listens: instead he observes.

Mason has very thin and short blonde hair, plain and brown eyes and everything about him has a bland taste that gives his stomach a painful twitch: there's nothing wrong with this guy, he thinks, he's nice and normal and I shouldn't think about using him like this, I should feel terrible.

His mouth is so dry he has to order another glass of water and barely drinks his coffee; he thinks about Hannibal in his study, seeing his patients, offering them comfort and therapy in that calm and soothing voice that seems to make everything better; then he imagines what he'd do if he could see him now, what emotions would appear on his face, what his eyes would tell him about what's in his heart.

Imagines Hannibal grabbing him and pulling him away from there, taking him away by force, almost violently and the thought alone is enough to make his face feel on fire; Will bites his lips and writes down the little he can hear of what Paul is saying to keep his mind occupied.

But it keeps wandering, keeps picturing Hannibal's hand hard and cold on his wrist, pushing him around: he wonders if the man would fuck him in the back sit of his expensive car, marking and owning him, reminding him who he belongs to.

His thoughts are dangerous and arousing at the same time, play with the darkest corners of his soul, reminding him how cruel and heartless he can be as well, focused on his own desires and blind to everything else.

At night, he touches himself in the shower, wishes he could feel the burn of Hannibal's hands on his body, maps the places where the long gone bruises he left him last time were, fingers himself moaning and sobbing until he comes, the water cold on his skin.

The stag visits him in his dreams.

Its eyes are blood red and stare at him accusingly; the beast groans and doesn't come near him, stays hidden in the shadows that fill the room and he feels judged, scrutinized, feels a sudden rage mounting inside and he can't keep it down. 

"Stop looking at me like that."

His whispers chase away the silence; the stag stomps one of his legs on the floor and the sound resonates around him impossibly loud.

Will closes his eyes and imagines skinning the beast; Abigail explained him how to do it once, her eyes shining with guilty excitement, with a barely hidden blood thirst: how to cut through skin and muscles without damaging the organs and the meat, what to keep and what to discard. 

He can almost feel the blood on his hands, the coppery scent of it in his nostrils, the slippery sensation spreading through his fingers. Imagines his grip around the blade, the sounds it would make while making its way inside the still alive animal.

The stag looks at him with menacing red eyes and it almost looks like it's smiling, proud to be immolated like that in front of him.

He still feels that blood on his hands when he awkwardly kisses Paul when they see each other the next day, when he pushes him against the wall in a dark alley and crushes their mouths together: it's so wrong, everything about it is wrong.

The way it feel, the way it tastes: it almost makes him throw up.

When they part, Will has bile in his mouth and his whole body is cringing and refusing the contact desperately, but he forces it to accept another kiss, other touches; he's disgusting, an abomination, he should not be allowed to live and breathe, he's a waste of space...

But Paul is smiling at him and he doesn't know why he's not running away instead.

"I... wanted to do it since the first time we met, but I didn't know... it didn't seem right... But I just..."

"Ssh, I know. I know."

He feels sweat clinging to his body under his clothes, his breath is fast and ragged and his heart is beating so loudly he almost cannot hear the other man inviting him over. Will shakes his head and smiles as well as he can.

"We can have dinner together. Tomorrow maybe? At your apartment?"

So I can have a whole day to prepare myself before I'll do the worst thing I can think about; or to convince myself not to do it.

His skin itches, he wants to scrape it until he'll feel clean again, until he'll draw blood: Will has to take several deep breaths to avoid vomiting right there in the streets, the guilt he feels in his heart is painful and crushing, gut wrenching and he feels maimed, like he would feel if somebody was cutting him open with a razor, slowly and deeply, making him bleed out.

He drives until he's in Baltimore and spends more than two hours parked in front of Hannibal's house, grabbing the steering wheel to support himself so hard his knuckles go white and his hands start to hurt after a while.

Will stares at the beautiful house, imagines Hannibal moving inside it, doing menial and normal things, blissfully obvious of what's going on in his mind; or terribly aware of it, because he seems to know everything about him no matter how hard Will tries to hide it, and to be willing to let him proceed without making any attempt to stop him.

He wants so desperately to hate him, to spit on him, to stop his body and his heart from desiring something so venomous, an acid that burns through his veins, but that he's addicted to.

He follows him when he goes out; hunting, he going hunting, his brain screams at him, he's going to kill someone, to take a life and you'll do nothing to stop him, because you're a coward. Because you're a monster as much as him.

Will watches Hannibal kill a man, strangling him slowly like he wants to take his time and his pleasure in feeling the life leaving him; and then, when he's not dead yet, cutting him open, with blood splattering on him, soiling the earth under the body, making his hands red and slippery with it.

His cuts are meticulous, clean, precise, not a single movement is unnecessary; there's a beauty in his controlled and measured gestures, a grace and an elegance that he should not associate with something as terrible and wrong as murder.

Will hides there in the dark and licks his lips, feeling his body filling with arousal, as he watches the carnage consumed in front of him, imagining his own hands doing that, holding the blade and using it to carve and dissect the body under them.

Will shouldn't be worried about him, shouldn’t be hoping that he'll not leave any evidence behind; but he knows, deep inside his heart, that they'll never find that body, that no one will ever find even a single trace of what is happening in front of him right now.

Because Hannibal doesn't want them to, because this is for him and for him alone, something private to show him what he can do, to give him a chance to rethink his plans while he still can, because soon it'll be too late. And to make him savor firsthand the taste of death and murder.

His empathy makes him feel everything with a clarity and a strength that knock the air out of his lungs, that leave him painfully hard and aware of every feeling around him: of the last moments of absolute despair of the victim, of the pleased calm Hannibal has inside, of the satisfaction for generating inside him a storm that rumbles and destroys all around him.

Will knows Hannibal can sense him, that he knows he's right there looking and admiring his work; he can almost see the smile on his face. And Will can taste blood in his mouth and it's so sweet.

Can feel it on his own hands and when he looks at them he's surprised to see them clean.

But he knows that it's just an illusion, because they're not.

They'll never be clean again.

\----

Paul Mason's apartment is as plain as he is, but has a cozy and warm feeling that swaps Will with another wave of remorse he struggles to keep down; because everything around him keeps reminding him of the sins he carries inside.

He's a gracious host, tries to make him comfortable, probably mistaking the way he's acting for shyness: he can't see, can't know what's inside Will's mind, the turmoil that shake the pillars of his soul, leaving him gaping like a fish out of water, desperate and unable to breathe.

If he closes his eyes, he can see the stag in front of him, breathing so close to him he can feel it on his face, warm and moisty; a gauge to a reality he's trying very much to forget now, before he loses his mind completely, torn between the part of himself that fights against his desires and the one who just wants to give in to them.

His dogs pooled around him before he left, trying to hold him back like they always do when they sense danger around him, howling and moaning, grabbing his clothes with their teeth and pulling at them.

But some choices cannot be changed once they have been made: so he sits there in that living room, eating a dinner that tastes insipid and dull in his mouth, struggling to swallow, ignoring the groans of the red eyed stag inside his head, the hollow sound of his hooves on the floor.

Will feels almost separated from himself, like he's watching everything happen on a screen far, far away and he's just a casual witness who stumbled upon a scene and cannot look away now; like the bystander entranced by a disaster, who feels sorry for what's happening, but also feels a strong amount of morbid curiosity and just keeps his eyes on the carnage.

How can nobody notice what's happening inside me, he thinks while he looks around, maybe trying to find a way out, how can people not hear my thoughts when they seem so loud, screaming desperately in my head to the point where I can't hear anything else but them?

People should smell blood and guilt on me.

But they don't; the cocoon of normality he has around his true self protects him.

Will bites down on his tongue until it hurts, bites to feel a pain that will keep him awake, that will shake him.

It's not nearly enough to be the pain he thinks he deserves to feel, to the scarring and the maiming and the mutilation he should endure to atone for his sins; but the thing is that he knows he'll never pay, not physically at least. His punishment is to forget.

He tries to stay focused on the dinner, on what's happening right now in front of him, but everything seems to pass in a blur and Will finds himself sitting on the couch with an half full glass of wine in his hand and has no real idea how he ended up there.

Will remembers talking, maybe even laughing, answering question, but it felt like someone else was doing those things, not really him. So when he kisses Paul again and pushes him against the soft pillows, it's like a stranger is moving his body, not him. It's not his fault if his body is not really his own anymore, right? The thought is almost comforting.

"Maybe... maybe we shouldn't..."

Will kisses him again and shushes him with his lips, silences him with his hands on his body, caresses all the skin he find even tho his fingers shake and itch to let go.

"No, it's ok... ssh, it's ok..."

Is that really his voice? It doesn't sound like it; the words are coming out of his mouth, but the voice is not his own. Somebody else is talking through him.

He feels like a puppet, a marionette, held by invisible strings, mute unless its creator puts words in his mouth. It that all he is? No, it's not what he is, he knows that.

He's the scythe in the hands of Death himself, sharp and dangerous, ready to strike the last blow and take the life away from the hopeless lambs under him.

The touches he feels on his body make him shiver in a barely contained disgust for himself, a chocking sense of guilt that threatens to cut off his air; the lips on his own are wrong, all the shapes and the angles are wrong, but he pushes further and further, ignores the bile in his mouth, kisses more, touches more.

If you want me to be a tool in your hands, he thinks while he watches the stag right in its bloody eyes, then I will chose who to cut and how, I will be the on the who makes all the decisions.

I want to see you fear me, I want you to worship me and offer me nothing but death, decay and destruction.

Do that for me, paint me in blood, gift me crowns made of the bones of my enemies and bring me their mutilated bodies.

Will closes his eyes and for a moment he can hear a distant laugh in his head, a whisper that comes from another world and another time; and his lips too curve into a smile...

\----

“I couldn't do it...”

Hannibal's office is almost completely dark, save for the lamp on his desk, the only light in the room, leaving too many corners in the shadows, but that allows Will to focus on his face; the man looks up from his drawing and smiles.

Will feels like throwing up again; lies with his back against the wooden door for a moment to try to calm his nerves and his heart.

“Hello, Will.”

Maybe I should set this whole place on fire, then perhaps I'd be able to see some reaction on your face. He didn't even know what he was expecting to find there: rage? Hate? But all he gets is Hannibal's condescending and, oh my God, almost proud smile and it makes him see red.

“You knew I would have stopped. You... you knew and you just...”

He takes a deep breath even though his lungs seem to be unable to fill properly, his head feels dizzy and he covers his eyes with his hands for a second; not to see the man in front of him, with his piercing eyes staring inside him.

“I almost let another man fuck me tonight.”

There's an almost invisible twitch in his face, half a sign of anger and disgust that disturbs his features for a moment, filling Will with an incredible sense of power that goes straight to his head and to his groin.

“I know. I can smell him on you.”

“I let him touch me, kiss me, I had his tongue in my mouth, his hands all over me. How does that make you feel?”

Hannibal closes his eyes and inhales deeply, before getting up and walking towards him: he's not wearing his jacket and Will can almost see the muscles under the cotton of his shirt; he licks his lips without even realizing it.

“But you stopped. You didn't let him fuck you. Why?”

His breath remains caught up in his throat and Will can't look at him anymore, turns his back to him and walks around the office, restless, unable to stop moving.

They don't speak for a long time; the only sounds around them are a soft classical piece playing in the background and the white noise of his thoughts in his head.

“Because I couldn't bear the thought of somebody who was not you inside me. My whole body was disgusted by it. I just... I couldn't let it happen.”

A sad and heartless laugh leaves his lips and Will has to sit down on the couch before his legs give up under him; he covers his face, trying to shield himself, but still feels Hannibal's presence around him as strong as before, filling the space and gripping his lungs so hard he can't breathe.

“You know? I remember the first time I chose you, the first time I ate your seeds. I was giving up everything, my whole life, for you. I was renouncing to what I was, destroying myself completely. It felt like I was not myself anymore, like I was becoming somebody else.  
And what I was before could not keep existing along the new me, so I had to kill it.  
I ate those damn seeds and I died. And you were proud of me. I was smothering my old life and you were proud to see me destroying everything around me forever, because there was no turning back from that, ever.  
And I wanted to see that look on your face! I wanted you to be proud of me, because I was becoming more like you! You twisted me! You made me the way I am now and you loved every second of it!”

His voice doesn't even sound angry: it's low, raw and desperate, a little more than a whisper, something that comes out of his body scratching and clawing, hurting him in doing so; he doesn't look up not even when Hannibal stands in front of him, when he can feel his presence so close he can barely stop himself from reaching out.

“Are you angry at me? Or are you proud because you wanted me exactly here, just like this, offering you the fruits of your manipulation?”

Hannibal's eyes are shining red, his face is almost completely hidden by the darkness around them; Will tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry.

“What do you want me to say, Will?”

“The truth, fuck! I want you to tell me the truth for once! I want you to stop lying and hiding and scheming! I deserve more than this, more than your lies, considering all I have given up for you!”

He raises his voice this time and he can see a specter of emotions that go from annoyance with a flick of anger to a contained indulgence on his face. Will knows he's testing the boundaries of his control more and more, can feel the strain in the rope that keeps them together.

And he doesn't care: because seeing how much his words and actions can affect the absolute control Hannibal has on himself, is exhilarating. 

“Sometimes I wonder why, of all people, you have chosen me. Why? What I had that the others didn't? Why it had to be me?!”

Will feels a hand in his hair, cold against his scalp, and shivers at the touch, leans into it even though he tries to fight the instinct, but his body betrays him and acts against the wishes of his mind.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Will? Are you sure you can handle the truth?”

Hannibal's voice and caresses are soft and gentle, too much for how he feels now; they feel so wrong and fake Will wants to scream out loud.

Instead he bites his lips.

“I think I fucking deserve it. I think you should fucking stop treating me like a damn teacup.”

Suddenly, Hannibal grips his hair so hard he gasps, forces him to look up, right at him: his lips are thin, his eyes are so cold and cruel he can't bite back a moan of sudden fear; it lasts only for a moment, before he gets a hold on himself and goes back to his defiant expression.

“Do you? I'd say you deserve nothing of the sort, considering that you reek of another man's body right now.” 

Will wonders how much harm spitting in his face would to do to him and then decides against it; he's so hard in his pants he should feel disgusted by himself, but the pressure of Hannibal's hand on him is so delicious and erotic he wants more, so much more he feels desperate.

He wants him untamed and unrestricted, wants to feel him raw and real on him; he bites his lips again.

“You ask questions you don't want to hear the answers of, and while you know that far too well, that never stops you from doing it again and again. From running my patience thin.”

“Fuck you.”

The hand in his hair pulls harder and he almost screams out loud; he could free himself, he's not restrained or held down in any other way; he could escape, Hannibal would let him, he knows that.

That's why he stays still and waits.

"You would like that, wouldn't you, Will? You want me to take you, to fuck you so hard you'll feel it for days. You want me to show you how deeply I can own you. Yet, at the same time, you defy me, you betray me."

Will says nothing, but keeps their eyes locked together, conveying as much strength in his eyes as he can.

After a long time, Hannibal smiles, even letting out a soft laugh that makes him shiver, then lets go of his hair and Will sighs at the sudden loss of contact; in a fluid motion, he kneels in front of him, cupping his face with his cold, cold, cold hands. His eyes are red and terrible and Will wants to drown into them, wants to keep them focused on him forever just like this.

To feel then slide under his skin, peel it off until they'll expose flesh and bones in daylight, revealing the monsters and the nightmares inside him, to exorcise and set them free.

His fingers caress his rough cheeks, his lips, his eyes when Will closes them to allow the touch to continue, to focus on it and forget all the rest; they slide on his neck and press faintly there, making him gulp and he can feel a sudden fear running through him.

"You are so full of life, Will. So warm, so stubborn. So impossibly and infuriatingly strong and willful."

The fingers press more into his skin, not enough to cut off his air, but surely to make him feel the discomfort of it, of that pressure limiting the amount of oxygen that reaches his brain; he puts his hands on Hannibal's and the man smiles more.

"I wonder how it would feel to squeeze it all out of you, to leave you empty and cold..."

The grip suddenly becomes so strong Will cannot breathe, opens his mouth and gapes, his eyes watering and he reads nothing but curiosity and fascination in Hannibal's; his nails dig into his flesh, but they don't try to push his hands away: he's not sure what he really wants to do...

The pressure only lasts a few seconds, but it's enough to make him feel light headed and desperately hard, to make him want more of it, more of that violent and absolute control Hannibal can have on him.

More of the knowledge that he alone can generate such harsh and unexpected reactions in him, that only him can see Hannibal without the masks and the lies.

Will takes a couple of fast breaths, feeling his lungs on fire and then the other man kisses him, attacks his mouth like he wants to eat him and he moans, grabs his arms and tries to pull him closer.

"But you don't want me like that. You want me alive, kicking and biting back at you."

His voice comes out ragged and fast, but surprisingly steady. He even manages a small smile and Hannibal looks incredibly pleased.

"Oh, I do. I do want you exactly as you are. But I guess you can allow me to indulge in the thought of your complete destruction for a while."

Hannibal inhales his scent, presses his face against his neck, still with his hands around it, nuzzles on it and Will moans softly, his fists tight on his shirt, pulling at it to make him come even closer.

It's not enough, he thinks, it'll never be enough, I want so much more from you... I want you to own me and I want to own you, I want to leave marks on you as deep and the ones you'll leave on me. I want to feel you inside and around me, I want to feel you everywhere...

"Yes... yes, you do, Will. And to achieve your goals, to get what you want, you're willing to sacrifice innocents by the thousands; you'll walk on their corpses and laugh at them as they exhale their last breaths. You're terrible, vicious and cruel as much as I am."

Will swallows and tries to pull him up to kiss him again, shivers when he hears him whisper on his skin; he nods and Hannibal backs away from him, smiling again.

"Then let me give you what you want."

His hands close around his neck in a tight grip again, taking the air away, chocking him slowly, giving him all the time in the world to wonder if he's about to die or just to pass out; he can feel his whole body focus only on the task of staying alive, of surviving, shutting out what he doesn't need and grasping desperately for air until his lungs are empty.

Black spots cloud his vision, but he keeps looking Hannibal right in the eyes, bathing in the cruelty and lack of mercy he reads there.

He barely registers passing out, black darkness surrounding him...

\----

Will wakes up lying face down on Hannibal's bed: his throat is sore, his head hurts and his hands are bound behind his back, but twisted in a way that makes the position as little uncomfortable as possible, considering everything.

He's naked and has no idea how long he has been out; Hannibal is in the room, he can feel it, but cannot see him and it makes him shift on the bed, nervous and aroused at the same time.

Something silky is tied to his wrists, one of his ties perhaps: the thought sends a shoot of erotic pleasure to his half hard dick; as does the knowledge that he could easily break free: the knot is not tight, the material soft enough to allow his hands to slip from its grip and he's not bound in any other way.

Once again, he knows he could run away if he really wanted to, but he doesn't: he stays there and waits; his breath catches up in his mouth when he hears his footsteps on the floor and sights when the man appears in his line of sight; still wearing his damn suit, still perfect. It makes him want to moan or scream, he's not sure which one.

“You must be thirsty, Will. Here, let me help you.”

Hannibal maneuvers him so he can take a couple of sips of water, his throat clenching painfully while he gulps down the liquid, then lets him fall on the bed again; Will closes his eyes and presses his cheek into the mattress, sliding his face up and down against the impossibly soft cotton. The other man caresses his hair.

“You tie me up and throw me naked on the bed... really? Is this the best you got?”

He knows that badmouthing Hannibal is a big, big mistake right now, considering that he's already tiptoeing on the edge of a cliff, but he does it anyway; and is rewarded by his nails digging into his neck, making him gasp in pain.

“I suggest you correct your attitude, Will.”

“Fuck you.”

Hannibal pulls at his hair again, harder than before and he almost screams, managing to hide it only by smothering the sound into the mattress.

“Are you going to spank me next?”

The man doesn't reply; he simply backs away from him and Will find himself mourning the loss of contact more than he probably should; he pulls at the restraint, without any real intention to break free from it: it's an almost unconscious reaction, his body longing to touch so much it can't help it.

He hears Hannibal take a couple of deep, deep breaths, maybe to calm himself, maybe just to feel the air around him.

“You asked me why I chose you, why it had to be you.”

Will swallows and opens his eyes, trying to get a glimpse of the other man out of the corner of his eye; he shivers when he kneels and runs a hand on his naked back.

“You... you could have had anyone.”

His voice sounds so small and it makes Hannibal smile.

“But I wanted you. You are everything I am not, you have something I have lost forever, perhaps something I never had. You burn with light and heat; you shine so bright I have to cover my eyes sometimes to be able to look at you. And yet you have so much darkness hidden inside, waiting to be released and I want to be the one who releases it.  
I want to see you covered in blood and lick it all off of you. If you asked me to destroy the whole world, I would do it. If you asked me to carve out my heart and offer it to you, I would. Because you are a part of me, the best part of me. You're mine as much as I am yours.”

Will muffles a sob against the cotton sheets, moves under him and struggles to keep still; Hannibal has his forehead pressed against his shoulder, breathing softly on his skin, making his whole body tremble.

“I know that.”

His voice sounds so different when he finally speaks, after a long moment of silence, lower and deeper somehow, like it's coming out of somewhere hidden and secret inside him.

“But it's not enough! I want... I want to see it, I want to feel it. I want you to show me how desperate and wild you can become because of me, because of what I do to you. But you hide so deep inside yourself I can't see. And I hate it! And I'd do anything to see!”

“You know I could never really hurt you.”

“Yeah... I know.”

But right there, right in that moment, there is something slithering behind their words, moving in the shadows, glimpses that shine through the darkness in painful awareness: a subtext buried under the lies and the mind games.

Will knows what he means with that, what Hannibal is implying and when their eyes meet, he can't help but moaning and nodding, receiving a terrible smile in return that makes his feel crushed and weak, that makes his toes curl and his dick throb.

“But I could hurt him: for touching you, even just for thinking he could have you when you are mine. And you knew it. You liked the idea of offering him to me, of bringing me to the point where I would have loved to break all his bones, to suffocate him, to torture him beyond recognition for daring so much.”

A part of him wants to deny it, to fight against his words, but he knows it's no use, because they both know it's true; Will nods and smiles faintly at him, feeling a burden lifted from his shoulders when he finally admits it to himself as well, when he can embrace the darkness within himself and let go.

Hannibal kisses the corner of his eye, his temple, his cheek, turns his head so he can bite his lower lip, sucking on it, caressing it with his tongue before kissing him hard, making him moan and whimper.

“Maybe I should cut out his heart while he's still breathing, when the muscle is still beating and pumping life into his body. I should take it in my hands, pull it out and then cook it for you. Would you like that?”

Will nods, feeling finally free when he does it, uncovering and showing himself in daylight without hiding anymore: no more lies, no more masks; and when in a smooth motion Hannibal removes the restraint, he gets up and sits on the bed, his legs tangling around his waist, pulling him closer and kissing him desperately, like he cannot breathe, like his life depends on it.

“Yes, yes, yes...”

Hannibal pushes him on his back and gets on top of him, still dressed, the fabric of his clothes rubbing against his naked skin, creating a friction that could make him go crazy.

“I want you to tell me what you want.”

“I want you... I want to see the real you... please, please just let me see you...”

Hannibal bites his shoulder hard, sucks on the bruise, rubs it with his fingers; Will reciprocates by attacking his mouth until he tastes blood.

Will smiles as he scratches his still clothes arms, as he pulls at his waistcoat and his shirt until he clumsily manages to open them, running his nails on the skin under and moaning out loud when Hannibal closes his eyes and groans.

The look in his eyes should frighten him, but there's a hunger and a fondness in it that makes him sigh and kiss him again instead.

“As you wish.”

\----

Hannibal fucks him face down on the bed, keeping him down with his wide, big hands, pressing on the bruises forming under his skin, making him moan in pain and pleasure; the sheets under him are stained with their blood and Will watches the red dots on them fascinated by how bright they look even in the dim light the surrounds them.

Will thinks that he shouldn't like the way the man manhandles him and digs his nails into the cuts all over his back and shoulders so much, that he shouldn't find it caring and almost sweet; the representation in its purest form of what Hannibal feels for him, of the reactions he can extract from within the depths of him.

But he does; they both have blood caked under their nails and Will takes Hannibal's hand to his mouth and sucks his fingers, tasting it, flicking his tongue around the tips until he hears him groan and push so hard inside him it knocks the air out of his lungs.

It's wild, desperate, hopeless: they mix their blood together and savor the taste of death and destruction.

His legs shake and hurt from the prolonged strain, his body is covered in sweat and he feels so good he almost starts crying, because the feeling is so blissfully raw and unfiltered, so real and nothing else ever, ever could manage to reduce him to this: to a bundle of nerves only made to feel this, to experience something so perfect it goes beyond his perception.

Hannibal caresses his hair almost gently, whispers something he doesn't get in his ear, kisses it and follows the contour of the shell with his tongue, stops moving for a long moment, holding him up with an arm while the other grabs the sheets under them: the forearm presses against his neck, not cutting the air off, but giving him a sense of being controlled that goes right to his dick and makes him feels closer and closer to coming.

"I love you, I love you so much..."

He wants to say, imagines himself saying, but doesn't, because it sounds so wrong, so out of place between them; Will bites it back and murmurs pleadings and whimpers instead, grabbing the arm around him and digging his nail into the soft flesh there.

When suddenly Hannibal pulls out of him, he almost screams in frustration; Will lets him turn him on his back, kiss him hard and lick his lips; the savage look in his eyes is air breathed into his lungs, makes him feel like he's floating, like he's above everything and everyone, abandoned on a distant cloud.

The man caresses his face, settles between his spread legs and puts two slicked fingers inside him, scissoring him even more open, pushing in and out, but the pressure is not enough for him, he needs so much more: he needs to hurt, to feel the burn of every thrust, the pain of every bite. His body is sore, bloody and bruised; he cherishes every feeling this gives him.

"You're so beautiful, Will... I only wish I could keep you just like this forever..."

Will bites his palm and licks the bruise when Hannibal pushes it on his mouth, forcing him to breathe hard and fast from his nose, muffles his scream when he enters him again, splitting him open.

They both have the coppery taste of blood in their mouth, their hands are covered in it, it has been soaked up by their bodies, permeates their skin and their souls; Will thinks it's beautiful what he can see behind him, the storm of shadows and ghosts and terrors that follow Hannibal obediently like well trained dogs made of horror and despair.

Will can feel their icy breaths on his skin, their pitch black fingers tracing it and he moans in response, reaching out to them and Hannibal smiles at him, white, pointy, knife-like teeth shining bright in the chiaroscuro around them.

He's so close, his body is tight and strained, he feels thin and stretched to his limits, so overstimulated and sensitive he can't bear to be touched and still longs for it desperately, wants Hannibal's hands to linger on him, to keep scratching his skin, drawn blood and lick it away until he'll sucks it all out of him, leaving him drained and empty.

Hannibal grabs his wrist and pins them on the bed, holding him down like this, like a martyr on a cross, immolated before a god who does nothing to ease his sufferings, but rejoices in each one of them, savors his tears and, when he judges them not hard enough, inflicts more and more.

And he takes it all; Will accepts his fate, his pain, the crushing cruelty and eats it from his hand with a smile on his face.

His eyes are red, deep and terrible, a nightmare of shades that keep changing, that carve into him, taking out what he keeps buried inside and exposing him; he thrusts hard and fast into him, melts their bodies together to the point where Will isn't sure anymore they can still go back to being two different people.

If they ever managed to exist independently; maybe they just pretended to, dwelling in the illusion of a freedom neither of them really wants, a weight that keeps them down, that cuts into their shoulders with its heaviness. Something useless they can discard only when they're together like this.

When his hands go back around his neck, Will closes his eyes and smiles, letting out a muffled "yes" and allows Hannibal to kiss him again and again before he starts chocking him, cutting off his air, taking the life slowly out of him.

For few blissful seconds, everything around him goes quiet; there's no sound, no movement, just the lack of it, the empty darkness of a bottomless pit where he can stop fighting, can stop living and breathing.

He doesn't fight it, drinks it all, accepts everything even when the hypoxia starts to make him see black spots in his vision, when his heart is about to give up and stop working.

He sees the truth in his own death, in his body that doesn't belong to him anymore, in his soul that leaves it and flies above them, seeing the black hole that is Hannibal and allowing it to suck him away forever.

Hannibal lets him go and comes inside him groaning and panting; Will breathes again and his lungs are on fire when he does, struggling to remember what is like to be alive, to function again. The man closes a hand around his cock, making him almost jump because of the sudden contact.

His other hand remains around his neck, caressing the marks he has left on him almost lovingly.

He knows Hannibal saw the same, that they shared the same terrible visions; it's a comforting thought, something even more intimate then sex: that will keep them together forever.

Will comes in his hand while kissing him, shuddering in his arms, clawing at his skin, suffocating his voice on him.

His body is spent, used; his mind is perfectly clear and at peace.

\----

He's laying on Hannibal's chest, his face pressed against him, while the other man gently caresses his hair, rubbing his abused scalp and tending to him with a care that feels so good after the intensity of what happened before between them; Will is tired and sleepy, but cannot fall asleep just yet: something keeps him awake and he waits in silence.

Hannibal changed the sheet and washed both of them carefully; he inhales the clean scent around him and moans softly.

"How are you feeling, Will?"

He doesn't move; because he can't and because he feels far too good there like this.

"Sore. Blissfully sore."

He's rewarded by a light laugh and then by a long, long moment of silence that stretches wide around them, engulfing them both and keeping them together.

Will senses Hannibal choosing his next words carefully, examining each one of them for all the time he needs, putting them in line and admiring his work before letting them out.

"Did you get what you wanted in the end?"

He doesn't know what to say to that: he knows he has unleashed something dangerous tonight, a caged beast that had remained confined for too long; a monster that was never supposed to see the light: but he cut all the ropes, broke all the chains and looked at it right in the eyes.

And he was not afraid: he embraced it, kissed it, and accepted it fully.

"I don't know..."

Hannibal moves so he can kiss his forehead, closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in his hair.

"You will see the whole of me. I will give everything to you. Everything you want and what you're too afraid to ask. Even what you don't know you want yet."

Like a beating heart, cut out only for me, on my dinner plate? Like a totem pole of decaying corpses? Like a throne of human bones? Will bites his lips and then sighs when Hannibal kisses him.

"You made me see myself. You gave me the keys to secret doors I didn't even know existed inside me until you came. I was blind, deaf and innocent. You opened my eyes and my ears and drowned my innocence in blood."

Hannibal smiles at him.

"You could have said no."

"But how do you say no to all that power?"

His hands are cold, always cold, they cup his face and his fingers trace the lines of it, press gently on them.

"You do not. And that is why you're here, Will. Why you always come back here, to me."

"I love you, that's why I come back. I love you and I can't live without you."

He wishes he could let those words come out of his mouth; but no matter how hard he tries, he never can.

But it doesn't really matter what he says; because Hannibal knows already.

He always does.

And that thought gives him a never ending peace.

\----

It's easy to forget the world when he is with Hannibal, protected by him, shrouded and kept away from everything like he's something precious and important; and it's always so shocking to have to face it again.

Everybody is staring at him when he arrives at the crime scene: they look at the purple bruises on his neck, at his still broken lip, at the way he limps and walks slowly.

They look and they judge him; but he doesn't care, because they don't know, they don't understand: he's above everything and everyone, so detached from it he can barely hear the voices around him, the whispers and a couple of laughs and snorts that accompany his arrival.

Paul Mason's apartment doesn't look much different in day light and with agents and technicians working in the small rooms: there is no blood splashed on the walls, no gore fest to welcome him: death here arrived quietly and gently, almost like a loving mother.

Only the bed is soaked with red blood, with two bodies laying on it: Will stares and feels a stab of pain in his chest, feels a rush of guilt; but it's so short lived he barely registers it.

After it passes, he has to force himself not to smile at the theatrical perfection of the composition in front of him: Paul Mason has his chest wide open and filled with once fresh flowers that now are rotting among the blood and the death fresh in which they are immersed; the man laying next to him has a gunshot wound to the head, the guns still in his hand.

“They were lovers. And half brothers.”

Will turns around and finds Beverly looking at him: her eyes flicker over his bruises, but try very hard not to focus on them; he gives her credit for that.

“The other guy is our killer, Lawson Carter: he left a very, very detailed note. William Mason had an affair with his mother and he was the result. When Mr. Mason found out that his sons were dating not knowing they were brothers, he unleashed a fucking hell upon them: long story short, they didn't see each other again for almost ten years, until Carter finally lost it and went to try to find him.  
Well, he did in the end, that's for sure...”

He nods absently, because he's too entranced by the scene to focus: he can feel Hannibal everywhere; in the way the bodies were carefully posed and staged, to represent sleeping lovers, like the Waterhouse painting Hannibal keeps in his bedroom at home, how Paul's heart was cut out... he's right there with him, offering the representation in front of him as a gift.

It's wrapped carefully only for him to see; he probably should not feel so flattered, but horrified by the absolute lack of disgust he experiences instead: his only emotion right now is fondness mixed with a bitter aftertaste of guilt that doesn't ruin the moment.

Maybe it makes it even sweeter.

“He says he buried Mason's heart somewhere only they know. I doubt we are ever going to find it...”

Will nods again and closes his eyes only for a moment: he sees Hannibal in front of him, cutting through skin and flesh, crushing bones and ending two lives almost gently, so unlikely all his other murders; there is no cruelty here, no rage, no distaste. He used care and kindness here: this is a declaration of love, a diamond hidden inside decaying flesh and caked blood.

Again, he has to fight hard against the urge to smile.

“I don't get it though. If he wanted only him, why he killed all the others?”

He looks at Zeller and sees him frown, an almost worried look appearing on him: there must be a terrible expression on his face, so he takes a deep breath to control himself again.

“They were gifts to him: he killed the people who in his mind, had helped to separate them and offered them to the one he loved. It was... It was revenge, humiliation... he humiliated them because they did it to them. So their pain, their death, their shaming... they were all gifts to him, to purge it away and wash their love clean in their blood.  
But he knew that after all this... being together would be impossible. And the mere thought of losing him again was unbearable. So he killed him, gave him a beautiful death, the most beautiful one possible and then killed himself so they could be together forever...”

Will takes a deep breath after that, feeling his chest filling with the smell of decay and death, and it tastes delicious in the back of his mouth; he catches Jack staring at him with piercing eyes, trying to interpret his reactions, the look on his face, but Will looks away and hides, surrounds himself with Hannibal's shadows to protect himself, so the world cannot touch him.

He looks at the perfect scene in front of him one last time, imprints it in his memory, clings to the memory of it and treasures it inside his heart.

He may be lost, rotten and wrong, may be a terrible monster hidden behind normal and common features, a devil who still pretends to be an angel: but he never felt happier before, never felt as whole as he feels now.

When he's alone in his car, safe away from everyone, Will finally smiles.

\----

The music is soft and relaxing around them, seems to follow the perfect rhythm to allow Hannibal to place the amazingly crafted plates in front of him, Abigail and himself with the best timing; the smell is delicious: Will observes the rich slices of meat and the decorations and his mouth waters.

“It's really not fair.”

Hannibal looks at Abigail with a curious smile on his face.

“What is not fair, Abigail?”

“You always cook better when Will is here.”

Will can't help a proud smile at that, steals a glance at the man sitting beside him, who is looking at the girl with a mildly offended, but still amused expression: the warm feeling he has in his heart seems to radiate around him, to wrap itself around the three of them and conceal everything else.

“You know that is a lie, Abigail. I always cook at my best if I have guests.”

“I'm not saying the food is usually not good enough, but... well... it's better when you invite Will over. It's like you know he'll eat it and make it especially good.”

Abigail looks at him and the knowing expression on his face helps him relax even more; Will takes another sip of wine and allows its sweet taste to wash over him.

“What are we having tonight?”

Hannibal looks at him and tries to interpret the expression on his face, tryimg to spot remorse or maybe disgust on it: but he just keeps smiling and looking perfectly at ease there, with Abigail sitting in front of him and the man so close he can feel the scent of his expensive cologne radiating from his body.

They all know what this dinner represents.

Will is collecting the fruits of his harvests: they are right there in his plate: carefully prepared and sugarcoated, of course, but there is no mistaking what they are.

They're death and sin.

Will's smile widens.

“We are having stuffed lamb heart with mushrooms, fresh greens and a special sauce of my own invention that, I am afraid, will remain secret until you both agree to let me give you cooking lessons.”

Abigail giggles and drinks some of her water, before starting to cut the meat in her plate: but both her and Hannibal wait for him to eat first.

“Sounds delicious.”

He murmurs and then, after a deep breath, takes a bite, savors the meat in his mouth for as long as he can, before swallowing it; Hannibal and Abigail look proud of him.


End file.
